Clad in an exquisite dress,
Revealing more, concealing less,
Charged more than you could guess,
I walk out, as though I’ve got nothing to stress!
Long boots till knees or calf of mine,
They hug my feet, with heels highly fine,
They are a symbol and mark of my status,
At night, in pain I coil as a fetus.
With long scarves and exclusive bags,
I carry those with Gucci or Chanel tags.
Copying those who are splattered on those mags,
With dreams to ride in Chevs, BMWs and Jags.
Why do I get ready? For those who see me?
Or for my own self? Am I caged or am I free?
When I need to look like what they want me to!
When I am known for looks and not what I do!